


The Space Ikea Saga: Blood Gulch

by Nivalisflake



Series: The Space Ikea Saga [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Comedy, Eventual Romance, Family, Friendship, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nivalisflake/pseuds/Nivalisflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Red Team and the Blue Team both require fine Swedish furniture, all hell breaks loose. Sprinkle in some freelancer drama and a whole bunch of AIs and things get very chaotic down at the local Space-Ikea very quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Space Ikea Saga: Blood Gulch

**Author's Note:**

> This idea spawned from a simple conversation between two friends of mine and me- Could you survive the zombie apocalypse if you were trapped in an Ikea? Then it evolved to how would Red Team and Blue Team react to being stuck in an Ikea? Which then evolved... Into this.
> 
> This first chapter has a comedic take on some PTSD so if you're not into that then I warned ya. Remember it's COMEDIC.

"Blue Command, this is Blood Gulch Outpost, come in, over."

". . ."

"Vic?"

"Yo! Yo, my main man, my main blue man! What's hanging, bro-io?"

"Right," Church stammered, shooting Tucker a meaningful, 'Help me' look before returning to the radio, an awkward silence filling the gap, "Hey-uh-Vic, we have an odd request."

From his time-out corner, Caboose made a low sound of remorse, mumbling, "I didn't mean it Church."

"We know dude. You can stop crying now. We're gonna replace it with something younger and prettier. They do the same thing with Playboy girls."

"Tucker, be quiet, I'm on the damn phone."

Taking his finger off the 'Hold' button he'd had to press to chastise Tucker, the only thing to come through was Vic shouting, "-LOOOOOOO!"

"Low?"

"Oh, my main blue man is back! What's your requestio?"

"One of our..." Church glanced at Caboose, facing the wall in his 'timeout corner', "...Younger troops broke our... Uh, shelf."

"A shelf?" Confusion was almost in Vic's voice, and it was if for a moment, Vic's new act dropped and it was genuine perplexion coming through. Didn't last long, as he immediately returned to his personality, "A shelf... Shelf-Shelf-Shelf... The storage shelf?"

"Yes! That!"

"For your weapons?"

"Yes!"

The small group of broken firearms sat on the cold floor of Blue Base, unable to be properly stored. A white wooden shelf, snapped in two and left to lean against the wall looked quite small and sad, and it was surprising that the tiny little piece could hold so many heavy weapons. A metal frame drilled into the wall to support the now broken shelf.

Caboose had attempted to get a weapon from their only shelf. And managed to break it in the process. To Church, the fact that the whole base didn't come down was a real miracle.

"Well dude, you called the wrong bro! I'm the military! What you need... Is like, like a Space-Ikea--"

"WAIT!" Church yelled, cutting Vic off after those two words that ran through his mind over and over. Space-Ikea.

"What, Space-Ikea, bro? There's one in your area," Vic offered helpfully, "Like, dude, I can call you like a space-taxi. I've got a friend, who runs Randy's Rip-Roaring Space Taxi Service."

"Yes! Perfect, do that." Chuch said, pressing the 'hold' button once more and turning to Tucker.

His friend looked back, "Dude, what's up? What did Vic say?"

"...Vic called us a space-taxi to drive- no, fly -us to Space-Ikea..."

"Dude, what the fuck? Space-Ikea!"

Caboose, once mopey and upset, suddenly bounced back and whipped around and said, in an excited voice, "OH MY GOD IKEA I LOVE IKEA."

"You know what Ikea even is? You know what- Never mind -Just calm down." Church ordered in his 'don't question me' voice, and the rookie soldier relaxed at the command, calming himself for the most part as Tucker spoke up.

"We're going to an Ikea? What the hell do we wear?"

"Dude," Church replied nonchalantly, "Let's just go in our armor, who cares, it's just a Space-Ikea."

"Can we buy some meatballs?"

"...Caboose, do you even know what's in those things?"

===================================================================

"Hmm hm..."

Sarge's mind flashed with such glorious images.

Grif dead, him leading the Reds to victory. Donut accepting that his armor was pink and not red. Grif dead...

CRASH!

He opened his eyes, faced reality, and groaned.

"Grif! What are you doing?"

"My shelf! It's been ruined! NOOOO!"

"Dios Mios. (My God.)"

Sarge leaned over to grab his shotgun, the only sound a quiet grunt and the cracking of his back. He stood, hefting the intimidating weapon up, and left the barracks, sucking in his breath to scream.

"What in Sam H-"

What he saw reminded him that his team was never going to be as good as he dreamed.

Grif was on the ground, covered in various white powders that caked his armor and turned it into a stark orange-white. Donut was wailing as he cradled pieces of snapped wood to his chest like a dying infant. Simmons was inspecting the kitchen shelving, where the incident had occurred. One of the lower shelves that had held Donut's cooking supplies was gone, and the cheap linoleum counter below it had a huge dent.

The highest shelf, where Donut's baked goods resided, remained untouched.

"GRIF!" Donut cried in an accusing and sharp tone, holding the smashed wood to his chest.

"Hey, don't put your cookies so high up on the shelf, you knew this was gonna happen eventually, dumbass." Grif snapped back, rubbing his tailbone and wiping the white, dry mixtures off his helmet.

Donut gently placed the wooden boards down to the side on the cold ground, shrieking, "My flour! And my baking powder! MY YEAST!"

"Donut, nobody here gives a flippity woo-haa damn about your yeast infection!" Sarge yelled, commanding the situation at once with his presence, and silence fell over the group.

Finally Donut spoke after a small moment of the awkward quiet from that comment, his tone whiney now, "But sir, where else am I to store all my imported bread ingredients? Organic and home-cooked baguettes are essential to my daily wine and cheese hour. And we all know what happens when daily wine and cheese hour doesn't happen."

"Veinte almas se perdieron ese día. (Twenty souls were lost that day.)"

"Wait. Is that why there's tinkling glass noises coming from the barracks at 3 in the afternoon every day?" Simmons asked, the frown that must have been on his face evident by the tone of his voice.

"YES! But now it's ruined by Grif, the orange menace!"

"I'm gold, not o-"

"Grif!" Sarge barked, raising his voice once more over the crowd, "Look at what you've done! Daily wine and cheese hour was the only way to save lives and keep Donut away from training at the same time!"

"Hey, Sarge, we don't even do training. We just joyride around in the Warthog."

"Exactly Simmons! This must be rectified!" Sarge proclaimed, turning to Lopez and saying, "Lopez, I need you to hail a space-taxi. We're going to the one place Donut can get a new shelf and where Grif can be easily entertained!"

"But... Where, Sarge?" Donut asked, rising to his feet as he left the shelf to rest on the floor.

"Space Ikea." He replied solemnly.

A chill fell over everyone in the room like a holy word had been spoken.

Simmons, who had been helping Grif up from the powder mess on the floor, proceeded to let go of Grif's hand, allowing him to fall back, "Ow! The hell man?"

"No! Mommy! Don't leave me in the ball pit!" Simmons suddenly wailed, his body language going closed off and he began to shake a little bit. Grif stood on his own, regarding his friend suspiciously, "Dude?"

"Oh yeah!" Donut stated matter-of-factly, "Hey, I think Simmons confessed this to me in one of our group therapy sessions..."

"Mommy, the other kids throw balls! Throw them!"

"The fuck is this?"

"He was left in the ball pit at Ikea as a child," Donut said patiently in his overly-joyed tone, "And I think it mentally scarred him! We've been working through it. I think you just set me back a few months, though, Sarge."

Grumbling, Sarge harumphed and said in a cold tone, "Well, he'll be fine. a little PTSD never hurt anybody. I dream of my fellow soldiers getting blown up, and I'm perfectly normal!"

"...Sarge, that's kinda fucked up."

"Shut your piehole before I throw you to the tanks, soldier! Lopez, how is that space-taxi coming?"

"Oh, ahora, se presta atencion? (Oh, now you pay attention?)"

"Good man! Tell me when it's here."

"Si, Sargento... Si. (Yes, Sarge... Yes.)"


End file.
